Tom Riddle's Story
by OrchDork18
Summary: Tom Riddle talks about his life at the orphanage where he was raised. PG13. One-shot.


A/N: This is about Tom Riddle's expierence as a child in the orphanage that he was raised in. This is a one shot and it's only my take on it. I will warn you that there is a bit of abuse in here and drinking by the matron of the orphanage. If you are not 13, please don't read this unless you ask permission from your parents. Reviews and flames are welcomed. If you wish to remain anonymous, please just put "anonymous" in the name column because my computer's being stupid and it won't let me change that. Read on!

Disclaimer: I do not own Tom Riddle or anything that is mentioned in the Harry Potter series. The only thing I own is myself and my imaginary pet duck, Harlequin.

I had been living in the wretched orphanage for the better of ten years, almost eleven. My mother had died right after I was born, living only long enough to name me. I was then whisked off to Saint Macy's Orphanage for Abandoned Children. I learned the stories of the other children, told my own story and made some friends.

As all orphans do, we imagined that our parents would some day come back for us. I imagined with them, thinking that my father was a world traveler and would eventually come back for me and raise me properly. On my eighth birthday, I learned that he lived only a few minutes away from the orphanage and knew about me. The rage inside of my eight year old heart flooded to tears and I ran from Matron's office and lay on my bed, waiting for the security of black night.

Around midnight, my poor heart turned to an icy stone. I hated my father and despised his blood coursing through my veins. A plan formed in my head. I would take revenge upon my father for abandoning my mother and me. I didn't know how, but I decided that I would. Eventually, I knew that I somehow would.

I crawled out of the hard cot that served as a bed and slid to the door, making sure that no one heard my shuffling feet. The door was usually locked at night. That night, however, the door clicked and opened just as my cold finger touched it. I looked around for any sign of Matron and silently slid out into the hallway.

I got as far as the back door before Matron found out that I was out of bed. I cursed myself and hid behind some garbage cans, hoping and praying that I would not be found. Cruel fate had other ideas, however. One of Matron's workers was in the kitchen that night, and heard my shuffling. Thinking it was a rat, she grabbed a carving knife and approached my hiding corner.

She swung the knife high above her head and was about to bring it down when I cried out. She narrowly avoided cutting my hand off. She then started yelling and cursing at me and grabbed my ear, dragging me to Matron's office. Bottles of various alcohols were strewn throughout the room. Matron staggered over to me and glared down at me. My pale face and black hair shone in the dimly lit room, making me apparent to even a drunk.

Matron muttered words that slurred together and lifted her hand high above her head. I flinched before the hit even came. For the next two weeks my cheek was bruised with a complementary black eye. Any thoughts of revenge upon my father were pushed out of my young head as I started to lose any connections that I had to my friends. I fell into a depression that lasted for the better part of three years.

Over those three years, I learned more about the children in the orphanage than I could have ever learned by talking to them. I learned about the Matron's drinking problems and I learned where the children who left went to. I learned the exact address of my father and imprinted it into my mind. I gained many scars from whips and beatings over these three years that have stayed with me to this day.

I learned what Matron's drinking meant as well. She only drank when something wasn't going her way; whether it was not having enough extra money for her 'pleasures' or if a child ran away successfully and she was going to have to explain to the authorities.

The day I turned eleven was the day that I was most shocked to find the alcohol bottles on the floor. It had been a good week and there was no reason that she had to be drinking. I stood in the doorway for five minutes before the Matron remembered that I was there. She slowly turned my way and then a wry smile crossed her face.

"I always thought that you might be another one," Matron said, slurring her words.

"Another what, Ma'am?" I was shaking. Was I being sent off to coal mines or something?

"You were always an odd one; always almost getting away but not quite; always getting into trouble under the most unusual circumstances…" she continued her slurred speech, oblivious to my question. "It was your mother that gave it to you, I expect. Although why she couldn't stop herself from dying, it's anyone's guess."

"Ma'am," I nearly shouted, "what are you talking about?"

The Matron looked over to me, her bloodshot eyes looking my small figure over. She grinned, as if thinking it was ironic that I didn't know. Matron then handed a piece of parchment over. It had a red seal of wax with a stamp that I couldn't quite make out in the dim firelight.

As I opened the parchment with shaking hands, Matron started coughing violently, dropping her cigarette to the wooden floor. I paid no attention to her as I read that wondrous letter. I smiled when I finished reading. I was a wizard. I could do magic. I would learn a ton of useful things and I would be able to solve any problem I wanted, without any help from anyone.

I, Tom Riddle, would be the most powerful wizard in the world and would take anyone who was not helpful to me down, starting with my father.


End file.
